Lightning bolt
by groovymumma
Summary: After the regrettable events of Box Hill, Emma and Mr Knightley both feel the need to make amends. Will our hero and heroine seize their chance at reconciliation, or be parted forever by a terrible accident?
1. Chapter 1

_I've recently discovered the 2009 BBC version of Emma, and although I really enjoyed it, I thought it would be nice to see Mr Knightley in a situation where he was forced out of his usual composure by events beyond his control. And this was what my imagination produced. I'm thinking four or five chapters in all, but would be greatly encouraged by reviews (hint hint)._

 _I have written fanfiction before, but this is my first attempt at Jane Austen (even though I have loved her work since I was a teenager). The action starts just after the ill-fated trip to Box Hill. I hope you like it!_

xxxxx

"I'm very sorry Miss Woodhouse, but the ladies are not receiving today. Miss Fairfax is laid down on her bed, very ill, and Miss Bates cannot leave her."

Emma noticed that the poor maid was twisting her hands nervously in her apron as she delivered this message.

"I quite understand, Bridget. I am very sorry to hear that Miss Fairfax is still unwell, and have no desire to impose myself on her at such a time. Do you think that a peach might bring her some relief?"

Emma held out the basket she had brought, brimming with the finest summer fruits from Hartfield's orchards, but Bridget backed away a little, shaking her head and flushing with embarrassment.

"Please forgive me, Miss Woodhouse, but the ladies asked me to convey that while they thank you for your generous attentions, they have everything they need at this time."

"I see," said Emma, mortified. And she did see. After her terrible behaviour to Miss Bates on Box Hill, any fruit from her must seem as poison to them. Still, it was not Bridget's fault.

"Please don't distress yourself, Bridget. I quite understand. It does seem silly to carry it all the way home again though, when we have more fruit than we could possibly eat on our trees. Do you know of some family in the neighbourhood who might be in need of such provisions?"

"Well, there is Mrs Stack, who lives down the lane from my family, and has just had her fourth child. It was a hard delivery, and she has had some difficultly regaining her strength."

"Do you think you could take the basket to her when you go home tonight, Bridget? I would be most grateful."

"Well …" the maid hesitated, looking up the stairs behind her as though to check that they were not overheard.

"I'm sure there would be no need to mention it to your mistresses, if you thought that it would not be pleasing to them."

Bridget held out her hands for the basket, and bobbed a curtsy to Emma as she received it.

"I'm sure you're very kind, ma'am, and Mrs Stack and her family will be most grateful for the gift."

Well, at least I've done one person some good in this day, thought Emma ruefully as she turned away from the doorway.

She could feel the eyes of the people of Highbury on her as she crossed the square. The mighty Miss Woodhouse, refused admittance to the Bates' house, for the third day in succession! She had thought that nothing could exceed the mortification of her thoughtless words on Box Hill, but this penance was even worse. Still, it was no more than she deserved.

She pulled back her shoulders and lifted her head a little as she walked. Let them look at her! She had been justly humbled, but still retained enough pride to wish to conceal her distress from the world.

A gust of wind pulled at her bonnet, and she reached up a hand to settle it more firmly on top of her coiffure. She noticed that the sky had turned heavy and grey, perfectly matching her mood. She almost felt that a good soaking would bring some relief from the present oppression of her spirits, but she knew that her father would worry if she were caught out in the rain, and so she hastened her steps towards Hartfield.

She wondered whether she would find Mr Knightley waiting for her at home. He often walked or rode across for a visit at this time of day, but he had not been to see them since the picnic at Box Hill four days ago, and she felt his absence keenly. He must still be furious with her! She brushed away a tear as she recalled the anger and disappointment on his face as he told her that he trusted she would some time or other do him greater justice than she could do at present.

Why, oh why had she said such a thing to Miss Bates? To be sure, she had been driven almost to distraction by the spiteful remarks of Mrs Elton, the endless prattle of Miss Bates, and even the fevered attentions of Mr Churchill, but that was no excuse for speaking in such a way to a woman who had known her ever since infancy. She had only meant her comment for a bit of harmless wit, to lighten the heavy atmosphere of the party, but she knew almost as soon as the words left her mouth that she had gone too far, and the shocked faces of her companions confirmed her assessment.

And the things that Mr Knightley had said to her! He had been angry at her before, indeed she had sometimes courted displeasure, but never like this. He had told her that he must speak painful truths to her while he still could. What did he mean by that? Did he contemplate ending their friendship?

She wished that Mr Knightley could be privy to her attempts to make amends with Miss Bates, but knew that she should not tell him of her unsuccessful visits. She must wish to improve her character for its own sake, and not merely to regain his good opinion. But it was very hard. Still, she had the consolation of knowing that her intentions were good, and of being able to say to herself, that could Mr. Knightley even have seen into her heart, he would not, on this occasion, have found anything to reprove.

The sky grew darker as she hurried home, and she still had about a mile to go when the first heavy drops of rain fell onto her bonnet and shoulders. She made a dash for the nearest tree, a large oak that she had often played in and around as a child. She was soaking wet by the time she reached the shelter of its branches, and undecided as to whether she should wait out the storm there, or strike out again for home.

After a little reflection, she concluded that she would do better to head for home and reassure her father of her wellbeing. At least Mr Knightley could not accuse her of being an unfeeling, inconsiderate daughter. Besides, the wind was coming up again, and she was starting to shiver in her wet clothes.

She set out again into the pouring rain, grasping her bonnet firmly to her head and taking care not to slip. She was not more than twenty paces away from the trunk of the great tree when she heard an enormous boom behind her. For an instant, the whole world seemed lit with the brightest light, and then there was a great rush of air which flung her forward and onto the ground. She rolled on her side, looking up at the sky to see what had happened, and saw a tree limb falling towards her. There was no time to get away. Instinctively, she curled into a ball and flung her hands up to protect her head. The branch struck her with great force across her middle, and she knew no more.

xxxxx

"Sir, are you sure you wish to ride out now? It looks as though it's coming on to storm," said William Larkins disapprovingly as he held the bridle of the bay hunter for his master.

"I don't fear a little rain", answered Mr Knightley, swinging himself up into the saddle and gathering the reins in his gloved hands. "You can let him go now", he nodded.

William Larkins released his hold on the horse, stepping back and shaking his head. "Mark my words, Sir, it looks to be a bad one."

"Oh, don't fuss so!" said Mr Knightley, turning his horse's head towards Hartfield and urging the bay into a canter. "I won't melt," he called over his shoulder as he rode away.

His mood was not improved by the reflection that William Larkins probably understood why he was in such a hurry to get to Hartfield. The truth was, he could not stay away any longer. Three days without Emma's bright eyes and sparkling wit, without the sunshine of her presence, had dragged unbearably.

He hoped that she would be at home to hear his apology. How could he have spoken so to the woman he loved? For love her he did, he could deny his feelings no longer. She should not have spoken so to Miss Bates, it was true, but how many times had he seen her listen graciously to Miss Bates' ramblings, or worse to Mrs Elton's veiled insults and jibes, without once giving a hint of her frustration or hurt? He had at times been able to deflect the conversation, to offer her some respite, but he had never once come to her defence as he longed to do. And the one time her composure had cracked, and she had let slip a thoughtless remark, he had berated and belittled her.

Upon his return from Box Hill he had been too angry to see the situation justly, but once calmed a little he had seen how greatly his own behaviour had been at fault. He knew it was jealously that had made him lash out so furiously. Watching Frank's marked attentions to Emma, and seeing them apparently welcomed, had been like a knife to his stomach, but that was not her fault. He had offered her no attentions of his own, only coldly stating that she would not like to know of what he was thinking. Between his own coldness and Mrs Elton's cruelty, was it any wonder that her animated spirits had turned to Frank Churchill for some relief?

He had sensed her mortification after she had spoken to Miss Bates, her desire to unsay the words. Yet, instead of offering her his sympathy (and perhaps a gentle word of correction, for he could not change his character completely), he had poured all his own frustration and hurt over her with his tirade. She had turned her head away as he had chastised her, but he thought that he had glimpsed tears starting in her eyes as he handed her into the carriage. Chagrined, he had opened his mouth, to offer some word of comfort or reconciliation, but she was gone from him before he could speak.

He paid no heed to his surroundings as he rode, caught up as he was in his thoughts of Emma, until the weather forced itself on his notice in the form of large drops of rain. He smiled wryly, knowing it would please William Larkins to be right once more. He lowered his head and spurred his mount into a gallop, thinking to outrun the storm.

All was well until a flash of lightning lit up the sky, and a loud crack sounded from the direction of Highbury, causing his horse to rear. He blessed the horsemanship that allowed him to keep his seat, though not without a struggle. As he soothed his frightened mount, he wondered whether a tree had been struck. Still, any fire would be put out in seconds by the driving rain, so he judged it better to continue on to Hartfield. He could always ride out again to check for damage once the storm was passed. He was honest enough to admit that his desire to see Emma without delay added weight to his decision, but he still thought it a rational one.

He was met at the door of Hartfield by an agitated Mr Woodhouse. The older man clutched at his arm as he drew him inside.

"Oh, Mr Knightley, I am so glad you are come. Emma has not yet returned from the village, and I don't know what to do. She will surely take her death of cold in all this rain."

Mr Knightley thought this a little overstated, as Emma had always enjoyed excellent health, but he shared the old man's concern at the thought of her out in the storm.

"Was she visiting in the village?" he asked quickly.

"Yes, yes, she went to call on the Bates' and Jane Fairfax. She has visited them every day for the last three, as Miss Fairfax is not well, but she should have been home by now."

She had called on the Bates, every day since Box Hill! How like Emma to humble herself and seek to make amends at the first possible opportunity. Mr Knightley was proud of her, but more ashamed than ever at his own behaviour. He was drawn from his thoughts by the realisation that Mr Woodhouse was shaking in fright, so he led him gently back to the parlour, settling him into his favourite chair by the fire.

"Please don't distress yourself, sir. I'm sure that Emma has enough good sense to shelter at the Bates' until the storm is passed." He paused, patting the old man's hands while he came to a decision. He knew it wasn't prudent to venture out in a thunderstorm, and yet he couldn't deny his own unease …

"I will ride out to look for her. Please stay here in the warmth, and I shall have her safely back at your side before you know it."

He strode through the house and out then front door, then ran through the rain to the stables, where he found that the groom had not yet unsaddled his horse. He mounted his horse once more and offering only the briefest explanation for his behaviour, rode out in the direction of Highbury.

The rain was heavier than ever, and he held his horse to a canter, not wishing to miss the path, or to come upon Emma too suddenly if she was trying to make her way home. He felt a bit silly to have let Mr Woodhouse's alarms infect him, as Emma was almost certainly taking tea in comfort in the Bates' sitting room, but it didn't hurt to make sure. She was so precious to him…

He rounded a bend in the path and saw with surprise that the trunk of the mighty oak on the rise was split in two, its branches scattered all around. He realised that this was the explanation for the loud crack he had heard on his way to Hartfield. He was slowing his horse to a walk, the better to inspect the damage, when he spied a long, bedraggled heap of material lying under one of the branches. He knew that cloth, would know it anywhere. It was a particularly deep shade of rose that became Emma so well. He had seen her wearing the gown on any number of occasions.

"Emma!" The hoarse cry broke from him, and was carried away by the rain and the wind. He knew not how he dismounted, but found himself running across the grass, calling her name over and over. He could see that her dress was being pelted by the rain, but he could detect no other movement in her form.


	2. Chapter 2

_Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to review the first chapter. I do appreciate it, and apologise for taking so long to get this chapter up. I'm usually not such a slow updater, but sometimes life just gets in the way of writing (especially as I have to do so much writing at work)_. _Anyway, enough with the excuses, and on with the story. Thanks to me, poor Emma has been stuck under that tree branch for an awfully long time. Someone really should rescue the poor girl._

* * *

"Emma!" he cried again as he vaulted over the tree branch that was pinning her to the ground, and knelt down in the mud at her shoulder. He pushed her bedraggled hair back from her face, his stomach plummeting as he saw how pale she was, her lips tinged with blue.

"No, please no," he begged, lowering his face until it was just above her mouth, straining to feel her breath through the pelting rain. Surely, she couldn't be… not so young and vital as she was, not when Knightley had only just begun to understand exactly how much she meant to him.

It seemed he waited for ever, balanced on the edge of an abyss, until he finally felt her gentle breath on his cheek. His fingers fumbled for the pulse in her neck, to confirm that he hadn't imagined it. It took him agonising seconds to find it, and he was alarmed by the cold, clammy feel of her skin, but eventually he felt the place where her blood beat, slow but steady, just under the side of her chin.

She lived! The relief was so great that he briefly dropped his head to her chest, his arms coming round her shoulders as he let out a great gasping sob. "Emma, my love, my dearest," he babbled, before pulling himself together. There would be time enough, he hoped, for endearments and embraces in the future. For now, he had to find a way to free her from the tree and the pelting rain, and carry her safely back to Hartfield.

The first thing was to find out how badly she was hurt, he told himself, kneeling up and grasping for his usual composure. Hysterics would not help his Emma one bit. He moved his hands gently over her skull and arms, ignoring the mud and the rain, but could find no obvious injury. He hesitated, looking to her face, but she was still quite unconscious. "Forgive me, Emma," he breathed, before quickly running his fingers over her decolletage and down the sides of her rib-cage, seeking any broken ribs. He could find none, but could not reach her lower ribs, under her bust, as they were pinned by the branch. He feared that it could not have struck her without doing a great deal of damage. He could not see any blood, but then it could easily have been washed away by the rain.

He slipped a little in the mud as he hurried around to the other side of the branch. Her legs were tangled in her skirt, making it impossible to discern any injury. He pushed the sopping fabric up above her knees and ran shaking hands over first one leg, and then the other. The part of his mind that he couldn't quite suppress registered that her legs were surpassingly lovely: long and slender but still shapely, with fine white stockings held up by lace garters. His rational self was more relieved to find no fractures. Face burning, he lowered her skirts back over her legs to preserve her modesty.

He stood and considered his options, dashing the rain out of his eyes with the back of his muddy coat sleeve. The tree branch lying across her middle was long and thick, at least a foot in diameter. It rested on the ground on either side of Emma, but appeared to have a natural curve in it where it lay across her middle. He sucked in a breath as he realised this was probably the only thing that had saved her from instant death. He wanted her free this instant, but wasn't sure that he could lift the branch without assistance.

Returning to her side once more, he placed his hands gently on her shoulders. Perhaps if he could rouse her a little, she could give him some indication of her injuries. "Emma," he tried softly, and then again more forcefully, leaning forward to be heard over the rain. He didn't want to shake her, but moved her a little by her shoulders, and then ran one caressing hand over her cold cheek. "Emma, my love, it's me, Mr Knightley. Can you hear me? Can you open your eyes for me?"

He was rewarded with a slight fluttering of her eyelids, and a soft moan from her lips. Greatly encouraged, he moved one hand to cradle the back of her head and slid the other behind her shoulders, lifting her slightly towards his chest, his broad back shielding her face from the rain.

Her eyes opened a little, struggling to focus. A slight frown creased her brow. "Mr Knightley?"

He let out the breath that he didn't know he was holding. She knew him! She was in her senses!

"Yes, Emma, it's me," he encouraged. "You've had an accident, but I'm here now, and I'll take you home just as soon as I can work out the best way to free you."

"Free me?" She lifted her head a little, away from his cradling hand, and gasped when she saw the tree branch pinning her down. She raised her arms in an instinctive movement to push at the branch, but broke off with a sharp cry of pain, falling back against his chest.

"Emma, don't move!" he cried, his distress at her pain making him louder than he intended. She recoiled a little from the sound, but then lay, gasping, in his arms. He fought once more for calm. He should be comforting her, not yelling at her, for goodness sake. Would he never learn to treat her as she deserved to be treated?

He cradled her against his body, trying to impart some of his warmth into her chilled frame. Even wet and injured, she felt so indescribably right in his arms that he never wanted to let her go. But unless he acted, and soon, she was going to catch her death of cold out here.

"Where does it hurt, Emma?" he asked in a softer tone.

"My ribs," she gasped, seeming more alert know. "The tree's crushing them… it's hard to breathe."

That decided it. He couldn't leave her like this and ride away to find help. What if he came back and she wasn't…

His mind shied away from the thought. He had to get this tree branch off her now. He simply had to.

"Emma, if I lift this branch, do you think you could drag yourself clear of it? I know it will hurt you, but I don't think your legs or arms are badly injured, and you might be able to manage it."

"I think I can," she said, after considering for a moment. "But Mr Knightley," she said, gazing up at him with concern clouding her beautiful blue eyes, "I don't think you should make the attempt. It's much too heavy for one man to lift."

Dammit, she should be thinking of herself, not worrying about him. "I can do it, Emma," he told her, striving to sound more confident than he felt. "I won't do anything foolish but I have to at least try."

She bit her lip, but nodded wordlessly in agreement.

"Forgive me, Emma", he said again as he laid her head back down in the mud. He thought of making a pillow with his coat, but really, there was no time for niceties. Every second he hesitated the branch was crushing her, pushing her down into the ground, stealing her breath.

He thought his best chance would be to effect a lift with the large muscles of his back and legs. He wasn't afraid of physical labour, and often worked in the fields alongside his men, ignoring Emma's playful scolding for not behaving in a manner fitting his station as a gentleman. He was glad now that he had paid her no heed, especially as he didn't really believe that she was displeased with his actions. Charming, teasing minx! What a merry dance she would lead him, if only he could convince her to accept him as a husband. But of course she had never thought of him in such a light, and how could she when he was always finding fault with her?

Shaking his head to clear his wayward thoughts, he focused on the task ahead. He slithered under the curve of the branch next to Emma, ending up face down in the mud. It was a tight fit, as he was bigger than she, but with a bit of scrabbling he managed to draw his arms and legs under his body until he was in a kind of crouch, his back pressing up against the branch.

"Are you ready, Emma?" he grunted. He couldn't see her face as he was now facing her legs, his feet pointing towards her face.

"Yes, I'm ready", came the breathless reply.

"As soon as you feel it lifting, even a little, try to pull yourself out with your arms. I don't know how long I'll be able to hold it".

"I understand," she told him. God, she was so brave. How had he never noticed that before?

He uttered a silent prayer for help, and then heaved with all his might, driving his hands and knees into the mud and pushing up against the branch where it lay against his back.

The branch didn't budge. His muscles were shaking with effort, but it wasn't working. This was Emma, his beloved Emma, and if he couldn't move this damned branch then she would most likely die here, in pain, in the cold and the mud. On that thought, he let out a guttural roar, and drove his back into the branch, forcing it up towards the sky, even as his legs and arms burned and his back felt as though it would break.

He thought that he had lifted it a foot or so, but he feared that if he so much as looked down, he might drop the branch back on Emma. He felt wet fabric slithering past his legs, and realised that she was moving. Her little grunts of pain almost unmanned him, and the branch did its best to drive him back down into the mud. He felt his face filling with blood from the strain, but just as he worried he might pass out, he heard her pant "I'm out. It's alright. You can let go."

He couldn't lift the great weight from his shoulders, so he fell face down into the mud, trusting to the curve of the branch to protect him. He heard a short scream from Emma, and hastily wriggled back out from under the branch until he was once more kneeling beside her.

She lay on her side, just clear of the branch, clutching at her ribs. He could see the tracks in the mud where she had used her hands to drag herself along. Her face was contorted in pain, and her breathing far too shallow, but she was free.


	3. Chapter 3

_Thank you so much to everyone who has taken the time to read and review this story. I really do appreciate it. I'd gotten a bit blocked, but your encouragement kept me going. I hope you enjoy this next installment!_

* * *

The ride back to Hartfield seemed endless. Knightley had wrapped Emma in his coat, even though it was as wet as she, and lifted her carefully up to sit across the saddle of his horse, before vaulting up behind her. The rain had finally ceased, but Emma was leaning ever more heavily against his chest. He supported her with one arm wrapped around her back, while his other hand kept a steady grip on the reins to hold his mount to a walk.

The agonizingly slow pace wasn't enough to spare her pain, though. He could hear her sharp little gasps of breath, feel the rigidity in her form as she sought to hold herself still, despite her shivering. He cast about for something he could say to distract her.

"Emma, why didn't you shelter at the Bates until the storm had passed?"

"It wasn't storming when I left," she forced out from between chattering teeth. "By the time it started I was most of the way home, and I didn't want father to worry," she finished sharply.

 _Damn_. He was trying to take her mind off her injuries, and she thought he was lecturing her again.

"Emma, I meant no criticism, I assure you. No one could question your devotion to your father."

"Thank you," she whispered quietly into his shoulder. After a minute she lifted her head to look directly into his face.

"Mr Knightley, will you promise me something?"

 _Anything,_ he thought. _You must know I'd do anything for you_.

Now was hardly the time for a declaration, so he replied simply "What is it, Emma?"

"When we get home, I don't want you to carry me into the house." She bit her lip, then continued. "Father would be distressed at the sight, and imagine my injuries to be much worse than they really are."

"But Emma, you can't walk on your own two feet, you were almost killed back there…"

"Please, Mr Knightley," she cut him off, staring into his eyes with her direct blue gaze. "You know I'm not such a poor creature as my father sometimes imagines. If you lend me your arm I'm sure I can make it at least as far as the stairs."

He gave in, even though it went against his better judgement. Really, what could he refuse her, when she looked at him like that?

"Very well," he grumbled, "but if I detect the slightest wobble, I will carry you, whatever the damage to Mr. Woodhouse's sensibilities."

She fell silent after that, and by the time they reached Hartfield seemed barely conscious. At Mr Knightley's shout, two grooms rushed out of the stables. One ran to the horse's head while the other reached up his arms for Emma. Mr Knightley shook his head, and kicking his boots from the stirrups and throwing one leg over in front of him, dismounted in a smooth slide, cradling Emma carefully against him.

Mr. Woodhouse must have been keeping watch from the house, for he came rushing out onto the front porch, crying "Emma, my darling daughter, what has happened to you?"

His cry roused Emma almost at once, and she started to struggle in Mr Knightley's arms. He tightened his hold on her, but she whispered reproachfully, "You promised".

He was a man of his word, and though it went against every instinct to release her, he bent and set her feet on the ground, keeping one arm around the back of her waist, and offering her the other. She straightened slowly, biting back a gasp, and leant heavily on his proffered arm. Her face was unnaturally pale, but her eyes were warm as her gaze met his. "Thank you" she said softly, before turning to face her papa.

"Father, I am quite well, I assure you," she began, but he cut her off at once.

"Emma, you are soaked through, and your dress is covered in mud. What on earth has happened to you? Oh my poor child, Mr Knightley, how could you let this happen?" Mr Woodhouse wailed, wringing his hands.

"Father, you must not blame Mr. Knightley. I suffered a trifling accident on the way here, and he was so kind as to bring me home on his horse."

Mr Knightley could feel the pressure that Emma was exerting on his arm simply to remain upright, and decided she had had enough. Mr. Woodhouse's nerves be damned.

"If you will excuse me, sir, the first priority must be to get Emma out of these wet clothes." He flushed a little as he realized what he had said, and bent his head slightly towards Emma to hide his confusion.

"Emma, I believe it will be quicker if I carry you" he said, speaking loudly for Mr Woodhouse's benefit.

Before she could protest, he swept her back up into his arms and strode determinedly into the house and up the stairs, leaving Mr Woodhouse fluttering and fussing in his wake.

xxxxx

It took a while to see Emma settled to his satisfaction, as it transpired that she had given her maid the week off to attend her sister's lying in. He knew the housekeeper, Mrs Wright, to be a sensible woman, and he was eventually persuaded to leave Emma in her care with the tweeny to assist. With one final admonition that Emma be handled gently, and that it would be better to cut the clothes from her body than to cause her any further injury through trying to remove them whole, he left Emma's chamber and called for a groom.

Once he had dispatched the man in search of Mr. Perry, he sought out Mr Woodhouse and did his best to settle the old man's agitation. He gave him a highly edited version of events (it was impossible to tell him that his youngest daughter had almost been crushed to death by a falling tree), but even so, Mr Woodhouse was completely overcome with emotion. Mr Knightley had never had less patience with the man's nerves than he did now, but he did his best to soothe them for Emma's sake.

Mr. Perry came, sooner than he could have hoped, and Mr Knightley cut through Mr Woodhouse's account of his palpitations and spasms to lead the apothecary up to Emma's chamber. He briefly outlined Emma's accident as they climbed the stairs, and then paced in the corridor while the man made his examination. He halted only once, when Emma cried out, and he had to stop himself from flinging open the door to go to her.

When Mr. Perry exited the chamber, his face was grave.

"What is it? Is she worse?" Mr Knightley questioned him, sounding almost like Mr Woodhouse.

"She is as well as can be expected," said Perry carefully. "She is warm, and dry, and resting fairly comfortably in her bed."

"Fairly comfortably? She is in pain, then?"

"She has a great deal of bruising about her ribs. They aren't broken badly enough to pierce the lungs, which is a blessing, but I fear several must be cracked. It is very hard for her to draw a deep breath – you would have heard her cry out when she made the attempt."

"And what have you given her for the pain?"

"I've left some willow bark tea, and instructed Mrs Wright to boil the kettle in the room, as the steam is beneficial too. Laudanum would give more relief, but it also suppresses the breathing, and we can't afford that in this case."

Mr Knightley reached out and clasped Perry's arm, a gesture that surprised them both greatly.

"Please, man, tell me what it is that you fear, without roundaboutation."

Perry paused, as though searching for the right words. "She is young and healthy, which must count in her favor, but I fear that so much time lying on the ground in the rain may lead to an inflammation of the lungs. And should that arise, it will be very difficult for her to draw breath with her ribs damaged."

"I see," Mr Knightley forced out, dropping his head so that Perry could not see the tears starting in his eyes. "Is there nothing more that can be done?"

"I will visit every day, of course, and Mrs Wright and Jenny will do what they can for her, but Miss Emma will require careful nursing should the worst arise."

"Can you recommend someone? I will fetch them myself if need be."

Mr Perry ran a hand through his thinning hair and sighed. "Unfortunately, Mrs Baggs, the woman I usually use in the village, is laid low with quinsy. I suppose we could send to London for a nurse…"

"Please do so at once. I would rather send for someone needlessly than …" Mr Knightley trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

"Very well, I shall do as you ask. And now, if you will excuse me, I must attend to Mr Woodhouse."

Mr Knightley bowed and let the man pass. Once he was alone, he wiped the blasted tears away with his handkerchief, and sent up a beseeching prayer for Emma's health. When he felt that he was sufficiently composed, he arranged his face in a reassuring expression and knocked on Emma's door.

She was lying in the middle of her bed, propped up on several pillows with the blankets pulled up over her chest. The women had evidently bathed and dried her, and changed her into a plain white nightgown. She was heartrendingly lovely, bathed in the weak afternoon sunlight, her golden hair tumbling loose to her shoulders. Her pallor frightened him though, and her breathing was fast and shallow. She opened her eyes as he entered and turned her head towards him.

"Mr Knightley!" She smiled warmly and reached out towards him, before stopping her arm with a wince. He quickly crossed the room and took her delicate hand in his calloused ones, pressing a gentle kiss on the back of her hand.

"Don't try to move too much, Emma," he cautioned, looking up into her face. "Perry said that you must rest and regain your strength."

Her eyes twinkled. "With you here to scold me into obedience, I'm sure that I shall soon be on the mend."

"Of course you shall, Emma", he perjured himself, swallowing the lump in his throat. "I'll sit right here and make sure that you rest."

He waited until her eyes had drifted shut before settling himself in the chair beside her bed, but even then he did not relinquish his hold on her hand.


	4. Chapter 4

_Thank you all for your lovely reviews and encouragement to keep writing. It has taken me a ridiculously long time to get back to this story, I know, but I hope you will enjoy this new chapter._

Mr Knightley spent the best part of that day, and the next, at Hartfield, much to the displeasure of William Larkins. Knightley himself barely gave his neglected duties at Donwell a thought. When he wasn't recalling the terrible sight of Emma pinned under the tree branch, or remembering the feel of her in his arms as he carried her home on his horse, he was worrying about Mr Perry's predictions.

Knightley sat with Emma whenever she was awake, and played backgammon or whist with Mr Woodhouse in the drawing room when she slept. He encouraged Mr Woodhouse to take his regular meals, and tried to do the same himself, but in truth neither man had much appetite.

On the second day after the accident, Emma's fever began to rise. Mr Perry was again summoned, but had no new treatment to recommend. He could only reiterate that Emma was young and strong, but that she must be carefully nursed.

Knightley knew Mrs Wright and Jenny were doing their best, but he greeted the appearance of the London nurse later that day with relief. Mrs Wilton was a stout, matronly woman with a fresh white apron and a no-nonsense manner. She shooed Mr Knightley out of the sickroom and down to dinner, assuring him that she knew best how to care for "Miss Emma".

He was too anxious about Emma's condition to quit Hartfield that night. He was dozing in front of the parlour fire in the early hours of the next morning, when he was shaken awake by the tweeny, Jenny, dressed in a nightgown and a shawl, her feet bare.

"If you please, Mr Knightley, I'm that sorry to disturb you like this, but I didn't know where else to turn, I'm that worried about Miss Emma…"

"What is it?" he barked, coming instantly alert.

"Something woke me, a cry maybe, and I popped into Miss Emma's room to see how she did and to ask that woman if she needed anything. Miss Emma's thrashing about something terrible, gasping for air, and that old witch of a nurse is trying to bleed her…"

"She's doing what?" Knightley shouted, causing Jenny to shrink back from him.

"If you please, sir, she's got a knife that isn't even clean, that she means to cut Miss Emma's arm with, and it's my belief she's three sheets to the wind the way she's been sipping from that bottle since she arrived…"

Mr Knightley sprang from his chair and made for the door, almost knocking Jenny over in his haste.

The girl followed him up the stairs, still babbling nervously. "I didn't know what else to do except to come for you. I hope I didn't do wrong, sir."

Mr Knightley realised he must be looking like the very devil, so much did he long to choke the living daylights out of the London nurse. He halted briefly and turned to reassure the frightened girl.

"You did just as you ought, Jenny, and Miss Emma is very fortunate to have such a devoted servant. Let me go now and I'll deal with the nurse."

He took the remaining stairs two at a time and ran down the corridor to Emma's room, throwing the door open without so much as a by-your-leave.

The room was cold, much colder than it should have been according to Mr Perry's instructions, and lit only by a single candle on the nightstand. The stale air reeked of gin. Emma lay flat in the bed, her face terribly pale and covered in sweat. She was gasping and tossing her head from side to side, seemingly fighting for breath. The nurse was sitting on the side of the bed, trying to hold Emma's outstretched arm still over a white bowl. Her other hand held a rusty knife, poised over the vein in the crook of Emma's elbow. The crash of the door against the wall made her start and look up in surprise.

Mr Knightley strode forward and dashed the knife from her hand. "What in Hell's name do you think you're doing?" he roared.

Mrs Wilton seemed unperturbed by his rage. She let go of Emma's arm and dropped down onto her knees to search for the knife. Her movements were slow and clumsy, and her voice, when she spoke, was slurred.

"She has an excess of sanguine humour. That's what's causing the fever. She must be bled." She continued to crawl around on the floor. "Why did you knock away my knife? Now I'll have to start all over again."

Knightley grabbed the woman by her shoulders, hauling her to her feet.

"Get out!" he hissed, propelling her towards the door. "Get out, and make sure to leave this house at first light, or I won't be responsible for my actions."

The woman dug in her heels as they reached the doorway and looked back over her shoulder, her gin-soaked breath causing him to recoil a little. "Just as you wish, of course. It's no skin off my nose. I can't help it if the quality don't appreciate a good nurse when they see one. She'll most likely die without me, but on your own head be it…"

He shoved the woman through the doorway and slammed the door behind her for good measure. He laid his forehead against the cool wood of the door for a second, fighting to calm his breathing, before turning back to Emma.

She seemed barely aware of the altercation that had just taken place in her room. Her eyes were open a little, but glazed with fever, and her gasping terrified him. He removed the empty bowl and sat on the side of the bed, where the nurse had been. He took Emma's small, hot hand in his left one. With his other hand, he reached out and gently stroked the sweaty tendrils of hair away from her face. "Emma," he said. "It's Mr Knightley. I'm here now. I won't leave you again."

"Emma?" he tried again when there was no response. "Emma, my love, can you hear me?"

The anguish in his voice seemed to penetrate her senses a little. She turned her head towards him, her eyes struggling find him. "Knightley?" she gasped hoarsely.

"Yes, it's me. I'm here to look after you. What do you need, Emma?

"The nurse?" Emma whispered, clutching his hand.

"She's gone. I threw her out. I won't let her hurt you, I promise."

Emma's hand relaxed in his, and she managed a small smile. "Thank … you," she forced out between breaths.

Her gratitude tore at his conscience. He should never have exposed her to that witch of a woman. Or sent her out in a storm to humble herself before the Bates' for the slightest of transgressions. Everything about this situation was his fault, and she was thanking him? It was unbearable.

"Tell me what I can do to ease your pain, Emma," he asked again.

"Can't … breathe …"

Panicking, he looked around and saw that several of her pillows had fallen to the floor. He remembered Perry's instructions.

"Emma, I'm going to lift you a little, and place more pillows behind your back. I think that will help you to breathe easier."

She nodded her assent. He retrieved the pillows from the floor and placed them in readiness at the side of her head. He then bent towards her and wrapped his arms around her back. He could feel every one of her ribs through the thin lawn of her damp nightgown, and she was terribly hot.

"Ready, Emma?"

"Yes," she gasped.

He raised her as slowly and gently as he could, but she still cried out and stiffened in his arms at the strain on her cracked ribs. He grabbed the pillows with one hand and arranged them behind her as quickly as he could, before lowering her carefully back on to them.

She was breathing faster than ever, and terribly pale, but after a minute or so he thought she was not gasping quite as much. "Better?" he asked.

She nodded.

"That's my brave girl." He smoothed his hand across her forehead again, and she sighed and closed her eyes.

"You rest there and I'll do what I can to make you more comfortable."

He tried to remember the rest of Perry's instructions. There should be a kettle boiling to make steam, but the fire in the fireplace had almost gone out. She was probably due for more willow bark tea, and someone should be bathing her forehead to try to cool her. She needed a fresh nightgown too. He couldn't do this all on his own.

He opened the bedroom door and bellowed for Jenny. Bless the girl, she came within seconds. She must have been waiting in the corridor.

"Good girl, Jenny. You see I've gotten rid of that damned nurse. I'll have the footmen throw her out in the morning, if she hasn't left already."

Jenny's eyes were wide. "I saw how you pushed her out the room, though she didn't see me. I think she's gone off to pack her things. Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say."

"Quite, Jenny," said Mr Knightley. "Now, Miss Emma needs our help. Can you run and wake Mrs Wright, and then bring a fresh kettle and some willow bark from the kitchens? I'll build up the fire again in the meantime."

"Of course, Mr Knightley." Jenny bobbed a small curtsey. "I'd do anything for Miss Emma."

She fled down the corridor. "So would I," said Knightley, under his breath. "So would I."


	5. Chapter 5

_Did you see what I did there? I neglected this story for waaaay too long, and then I just posted two updates in three days. I hope you are proud of me! Only one more chapter to go after this. Thank you to Lady B90, tkaan, Animagus-Steph, Tractor Girl and myla84 for your lovely reviews of chapter 4._

* * *

Knightley, the housekeeper and the tweeny applied every remedy they could think of over the next day and night, but their best efforts counted as nought against the fever that wracked Emma's slender frame. At times she dozed fitfully, at others she cried out and fought for breath. Mrs Wright and Jenny took turns to retire to their rooms and sleep, but Mr Knightley was too afraid to leave Emma. Mr Perry had warned him that her illness would reach a crisis, and it seemed to him that it was drawing nearer.

He did briefly quit the sickroom on the second day of their vigil, when the butler came to the door to announce that Miss Bates had called. He was about to deny her when recalled that he wanted an explanation as to why she had permitted Emma to walk home in a storm. He glanced at Emma but she was dozing, and seemed in no immediate danger. Wearily pushing his hair from his eyes, he nodded to the butler. "Thank you, Farthing. Please tell Miss Bates I will be down directly to see her."

"Very good, sir. I have placed her in the blue sitting room, and I took the liberty of ordering tea and refreshments."

 _Tea and refreshments!_ It seemed absurd that the rest of the household should be going about the everyday motions of life, as though Emma was not lying in her bed, desperately ill, perhaps dy…

 _No!_ He would not finish that thought. She _would_ get better. He would not permit it to be otherwise.

The butler held the door for him as he exited the room. He nodded his thanks, and saw that the old man's hand was trembling as he gestured down the hallway. So, he was not the only one affected.

He tidied his cravat in front of the hall mirror and smoothed down his waistcoat, but there was nothing he could do about the stubble on his chin, or the dark circles under his eyes. He did not look at all the gentleman, but Miss Bates would have to take him as she found him.

He strode into the sitting room and bowed. "Good day, Miss Bates. I trust I find you well."

She was perched on a dainty sofa, a tea service and cucumber sandwiches arranged on the table in front to her. She began at once to babble. "Oh Mr Knightley, always so kind, always thinking of others, I came as soon as I heard …"

Knightley cut her off ruthlessly. "You must forgive me, I only have a minute or two to spare. Miss Woodhouse is most ill and I cannot leave her for long."

"Oh dear, oh dear, I had so hoped to hear that she was better," she exclaimed, her lace cap bobbing in distress. "Poor, poor Miss Woodhouse. I am quite shocked." She paused for a second and then raised one hand to the ruffle at her neck as the meaning of his words penetrated. "Mr Knightley, do I understand that you are tending to her? Pardon me for saying so, but are you quite sure that is proper?"

He snorted. "You must forgive me madam, but at this precise moment I do not give a damn." He could see he had shocked her. He continued more quietly. "I care more for her life than her reputation."

"Yes, of course, I see, but is there no one else who could tend to her? What of Isabella or Mrs Weston? Surely Mr Perry would know of a nurse in the village?"

"Do you not think I have considered all those possibilities?" he ground out in frustration. "Perry's village nurse is ill, and the replacement we had from London was dangerously incompetent." He shuddered, remembering the rusty knife poised above Emma's arm. "Mr Woodhouse has already taken to his bed, prostrate with tremors and terrors, and I assure you if I were silly enough to summon Isabella then she would promptly retire to hers. Surely you recall that neither of them was ever the least use when someone was ill?"

Miss Bates shook her head sadly. "Yes, of course, that is very true what you say, Mr Knightley. But what of Mrs Weston?"

"Emma has a high fever and may be infectious. I could not possibly ask Mrs Weston to endanger her own health, so close to her confinement as she is."

"Oh dear," babbled Miss Bates. "What is to be done? I would offer to care for her myself, but my dear Jane is still so ill."

His hands clenched into fists, and he bit his tongue to prevent himself from telling her exactly what he thought of Miss Fairfax's megrims. To compare her affliction, which Mr Knightley suspected was due more to unrequited love than to any real ailment, to Emma's sufferings, was too much.

Miss Bates, unaware of the direction of his thoughts, proceeded to unwittingly stoke the flames. "What of Mrs Elton?" she asked innocently. "A Minister's wife can always be relied on to help in times of trouble."

He started at her in amazement, his mouth open. He knew her to be an exceedingly silly woman, but surely she was not so stupid as to have missed all the slights and barbs Mrs Elton directed towards Emma? Neither Mrs Elton nor her husband took the slightest pains to hide their contempt for her from Hartfield society. He did not know how Emma had borne it as gracefully, and for as long, as she did.

Miss Bates belatedly seemed to realise that she had gone too far. "Yes, well, of course, perhaps it would not be quite the thing. You must not regard my ramblings, Mr Knightley. All goodness and kindness is our Mrs Elton, to be sure, but likely she would be too busy with her parish duties to undertake the task of nursing Miss Woodhouse."

Knightley shrugged. "It doesn't matter. I am caring for her, with Jenny and Mrs Wright's assistance. I will not leave her." He glanced at the clock. "Forgive me madam, I have already stayed too long." He bowed and spun on his heel. He was at the door when he remembered his original purpose in coming down, and he turned to put his question to Miss Bates.

"I meant to ask, how came you to let Emma leave that day? Surely you could sense the storm coming?"

Miss Bates paled. "Oh dear, oh dear, I feel so terrible about it, that was why I had to come, truly, I meant Miss Woodhouse no harm…"

"Of course you didn't," he said more gently. "Did you not notice the dark clouds nor hear the thunder?"

"It wasn't that, Mr Knightley. You see, oh dear, I hardly know how to tell you.."

"Tell me what?" Something was amiss here. He recalled that Emma had been similarly evasive when he'd asked why she had not tarried at the Bates'.

Miss Bates took her fence at a rush. "It's not that we let her go into the storm, it was that we didn't feel we could receive her that day, with Jane laid down on her bed so ill, and myself tending her."

"You didn't feel you could receive her?" he repeated incredulously. "But I understood it to be the third day in succession she had visited you?"

Miss Bates quailed before his displeasure. She pulled a lace handkerchief from her sleeve and covered her face with it. "Oh dear, we didn't quite feel we could receive her those days either, as Jane was so distressed at even the mention of her name, but truly I never thought it would come to this…" She began to cry into her handkerchief.

Mr Knightley did not trust himself to speak. They had left Emma standing on their doorstep like a common tramp. And not once, but for three days in succession! Certainly, he bore part of the blame for allowing his jealously full rein in scolding Emma so harshly, but he could not believe that such old friends had treated her so ill.

When he felt that he could control his voice, he spoke again. "I must leave you now. Miss Woodhouse needs me. I can ask only that you pray for her." The sound of Miss Bates' quiet weeping followed him up the stairs as he returned to Emma.

* * *

Hot. She was so hot, her mouth so dry. Emma tossed her head on the pillow, searching for a cooler spot, but there was none to be had. She moaned with frustration and a gentle hand laid something cold and wet on her forehead. She sighed in relief. Was it Mr Knightley?

"That's it, Miss Emma. Let the flannel cool you down. Now, if I was to raise you up a little, do you think you could sip this barley water?" It was a familiar voice, but a woman's voice, not Mr Knightley's. The hand slid behind her head, and a cup was pressed to her lips. She clamped them shut and turned her head away, causing some liquid to dribble down her chin. She didn't want this woman's help. She wanted Mr Knightley. He had promised not to leave her, but he had. Didn't he want to be her friend anymore? Her eyes filled and hot tears began to roll down her cheeks.

She heard the door open and a firm tread cross the room. "How is she?" a male voice whispered, and then more forcefully, "Why is she crying?"

"I'm sorry Mr Knightley, I'm doing my poor best, to be sure, but I just can't seem to soothe her the way you can."

"My apologies, Mrs Wright. I meant no criticism." The man gave a tired sigh. "Give me the barley water and let me try what I can do."

"I'll just go and fetch some fresh linens, but you have only to call out and Jenny will hear you."

"Very good."

Lighter footsteps crossed the room, and the door opened and shut again.

The mattress bent a little as the man sat on the bed. A firm, cool hand held her cheek and wiped her tears away.

"Emma, I'm here now, please don't cry. I've sent Miss Bates away and I won't leave you again."

Miss Bates here! Why had she come? Was it to remind Mr Knightley of Emma's terrible behaviour? Her tears fell faster.

"Emma, please, I can't bear to see you cry like this…" he begged.

She made a valiant effort to stop the tears, but she was so hot, and ashamed, and her chest hurt so much.

Still, he seemed pleased with her attempt. "That's my brave girl. See now if you can take a little of this barley water."

Obedient to the command in his voice, she opened her mouth and swallowed the cool liquid. The fire in her throat eased momentarily, and she drifted back to sleep.

* * *

She woke to pain. A tight band was squeezing her chest, and every breath was cut short by the sharp stabbing in her side. She was smothering, lungs burning, fighting for oxygen. There was no water, but she was drowning anyway, drowning in air and sweat, in fear.

Strong hands wrapped around her ribs, supporting her through each desperate gasp. "Emma, does that help? Is it any easier?"

She moaned. It helped a little, but she couldn't get enough air in, couldn't help but recoil from the knife that awaited the end of each breath.

The hands drew her forward until her head was resting against a warm shoulder, covered in fine cloth. The shoulder smelt like starch and horse, like man. She nestled closer, and felt the voice rumbling through her cheek. "Lean on me, Emma. I'll help you breathe."

The tension in her shoulders eased slightly. This new position dulled the stabbing, and the voice was so comforting, so familiar. For a while it was enough, but she was so very tired. Perhaps if she stopped fighting, it wouldn't hurt anymore. The darkness was wrapping her in its warm embrace, and she was no longer afraid of it. She could rest there.

"Emma! Come back, Emma!" The voice was calling to her, but it was so far away. She didn't have the energy to do its bidding, couldn't think why she should. It was nicer to just drift away, to be at peace.

"Emma! Don't leave me!" The voice was anguished, begging now, pleading with her to return. She didn't know why the voice cared so much, but it seemed very important. Perhaps she should struggle on for a little longer. With a great gasp, she surfaced into the light, and the pain.

* * *

 _What do you think? Please write a review and let me know. Reviews are like crack (or chocolate) to me, and will really help me to get over the hump of writing the last chapter ;-)_


	6. Chapter 6

_It's my last day of holidays, and I thought if I didn't post the FINAL CHAPTER today there was a risk of this story falling back into hiatus. So I hope you enjoy it!_

* * *

For the second time in three days, Knightley was woken by a hand on his shoulder. At first he resisted, burrowing back into the pillows. He didn't know why he was lying on top of the blankets, instead of under them, but frankly he didn't have the energy to investigate. Even his bones were tired.

"Mr Knightley, wake up. You can't stay here, man."

Reluctantly, he cracked open his eyes. In the early dawn light he saw that Mr Perry was leaning over him, his eyes full of sympathy.

"Who, what?" he mumbled, before memory came rushing back. _Emma!_

Frantically he rolled over and found her lying next to him. She was perfectly pale, perfectly still. Her hair had been brushed back from her face, the coverlet folded neatly over her bosom. Her arms were laid out straight on either side.

"No!" The single word was torn from him. She couldn't be … not after she had fought so hard to stay. She was so young.

He seized her arms. They were cold in the chill morning air, too cold. He started to shake her. She couldn't leave him alone like this. She had to come back.

"Get a grip on yourself, man. She's not dead, only sleeping. The fever has broken." Perry was almost shouting to make himself understood.

Knightley scrambled to feel the pulse in her neck, but his fingers were shaking uncontrollably and he couldn't find it. Desperate, he laid his cheek against her cool lips. The soft exhale of her breath was surely the most beautiful thing he had ever felt. He dropped his head onto her bosom and let go of his fear and relief in great, gulping heaves.

He was not in the habit of giving free rein to his emotions. It was some minutes before he could compose himself, but eventually he sat up and wiped his face with the back of his sleeve. Perry must have slipped from the room to give him some privacy, so he sat for a while, watching the gentle rise and fall of Emma's chest, giving thanks to God for her life.

There was a knock on the door and Perry re-entered. "Please, forgive me," said Mr Knightley, standing to greet him.

"There is nothing to forgive," said Perry, shaking his hand vigorously. "You saved her life, you and the servants."

"You're sure she will live?"

"Yes, quite sure. The infection is retreating, and her breathing much less laboured. The bruising will fade with time, and she should make a full recovery."

Knightley let out the breath he was holding. Suddenly, his legs could barely support his weight. Perry reached forward and grasped his elbow.

With one last glance back at Emma, Knightley allowed Perry to guide him from the room.

"Come now," said the older man. "They tell me you have barely slept in three nights. I'll drive you back to Donwell in my gig, and you must take something to eat and go straight to bed."

Knightley was loathe to leave Emma so soon, but he knew Perry had already allowed him far greater latitude than society dictated. He would do as he was told for now, and return to Hartfield rested and changed.

* * *

He was so exhausted that he slept that day and the next night entire. "Why on earth didn't you wake me sooner?" he questioned his man when he came in to open the drapes in his bedchamber the following morning.

"My apologies, sir. Mr Perry was explicit in his instructions that you not be disturbed, and to be honest we didn't have the heart to wake you, not with the state you were in when you arrived. I apprehend that Miss Woodhouse is out of danger?"

"Yes, she is." His heart lightened at the mention of her name. "I will ride over there directly I have shaved and broken my fast. Please lay out my pantaloons and blue coat."

"The Bath superfine, sir?" asked his man in surprise.

"What do I know of fabrics? My best coat. The one that matches Miss Woodhouse's eyes."

"Very good, sir," said his man, bowing low and withdrawing, but not before Knightley had seen the knowing smirk on his face. He chose to ignore it.

* * *

He had a little trouble with his cravat,unused to paying attention to such niceties, and it was almost eleven when he arrived at Hartfield. It was a stunning morning. The sky was a brilliant blue, with the promise of a warm day ahead.

Farthing answered the door, the wooden expression on his face not quite matching Knightley's exalted mood.

"Good morning, Mr Knightley."

"Good morning, Farthing. How does Miss Woodhouse go on?"

"A good deal better, sir," the butler replied, without his customary smile.

"Excellent!" replied Mr Knightley. "You need not show me up. I know my way well."

"Very good, sir, only…"

"Only, what?" asked Knightley, uneasily.

"Only Mr Churchill is already with her."

"Mr Churchill?" Knightley barked. "What is he doing here?" He had hardly given the man a thought since Emma's accident. He understood that Churchill had been called away to tend to his aunt, but surely he could at least have sent an express to see how the woman he favoured went on? And now, when all danger was past, when Emma's life had been fought for and won, to present himself at the house as though nothing had happened! Truly, the man was a bounder.

"I believe he only heard of Miss Emma's accident when he returned to Highbury this morning, and rode over immediately to see how she did. He seemed most concerned."

"He did, did he? Well, I am also most concerned, so I will go up now and see how Miss Emma does."

He stalked up the stairs, pausing outside Emma's door to smooth down his coat and gather his wits. He could hardly start a brawl with Frank Churchill in a lady's bedroom, much as he might like to, but he was not at all sure he could meet the man with even the appearance of civility.

As he raised his hand to knock, he heard Frank's voice from within.

"Truly, Emma, I know I should not impose on you so soon after your illness, but you know how impulsive I am. Allow me to tell you that you have made me the happiest of men."

Emma's reply was a delighted laugh.

Sickened, Knightley turned away. It was too late. He had scolded Emma, berated her like a child, never told her of his love for her, and now she was to wed _Frank Churchill_. Of course, he himself had not come here to propose this morning, best coat or no. He had come in concern to see how she did, but also to try whether he could start their friendship in a new direction, one of mutual affection and regard. But it was all dust and ashes now.

He had no idea how he got himself out of the house and onto his horse. He was amazed to find that he could still ride, as his whole body was numb. Like a wounded animal making for its den, he pressed his horse on towards Donwell. William Larkin was waiting for him in the courtyard.

"God in heaven, has Miss Woodhouse taken another turn?" asked William as he seized the horse's bridle.

"No, she is quite well," answered Knightley shortly, dismounting.

"Well, something must have happened to put that thunderous look on your face, and if it's not Miss Emma I don't see what else it could be."

"I'll have none of your insolence, now, Will. Have the brandy sent to the library, and no one is to disturb me, unless I ring. Is that clear?"

"But, sir…?"

"No one" he shouted, desperate to be alone.

"Very good sir, if that is your wish." William Larkin let him go.

* * *

The staff took him at his word and left him alone until the next morning. Predictably, it was William Larkin who eventually took it on himself to disobey his master.

"Go away," growled Knightley, slouched in his oldest Chesterfield, the half-empty brandy decanter on a table at his side.

"I suppose you've heard the news, then?"

"Dammit, William, my head is pounding and I've no time for your games. What news?"

"The news of Frank Churchill's engagement, of course. It's all over Highbury."

Knightley dropped his head into his hands. _It was true, then_. His last, vain hope had been that he had misunderstood somehow, that it was not yet certain.

"Of course, we all of us thought Miss Emma was the object of his affections, if ye'll beg my pardon for sayin' so. We none of us thought of Miss Fairfax."

"Miss Fairfax?" Knightley's head came up like a shot, causing him to groan as his skull objected to the sudden movement. "What on earth has she to say in the matter?"

"Why, she's the one that's engaged to Mr Churchill, of course."

It took the concerted efforts of his household, and two strong cups of black coffee, but he was back at Hartfield within the hour, sober and presentable.

* * *

Emma was reclining on the sofa in her bedroom. Her maid, now returned from her sister's lying in, had arranged her hair in a soft plait and helped her to dress in a loose morning gown, as her ribs were still giving her a deal of trouble. The maid had also, at Mr Woodhouse's urging, wrapped Emma in a shawl and built up the fire in spite of the fine summer day. Now, however, Emma was finally, blessedly alone.

Her spirits were very low. Mr Perry said it was only to be expected when recovering from an inflammation of the lungs. Emma sighed. Mr Knightley had not visited yesterday or today. She wondered what was keeping him away.

She had only vague memories of her accident and illness. She remembered a crushing weight lifting off her, strong, callused, hands holding her, and a beloved voice encouraging her not to give in. Surely that was Mr Knightley? If so, why did he not call now to see how she did?

Perhaps he had already heard the news of Mr Churchill's engagement? He had always been forthright in his disapproval of Frank, and of her matchmaking schemes, so it was bound to make him even angrier with her than the events of Box Hill. Emma wiped at her eyes. If he was to be constantly displeased with her, perhaps he _should_ end their friendship. Only, she would be so lonely without him.

There was a knock on the door, and Mr Knightley entered without waiting to be called. He looked very well in his second-best coat, his strong frame showing to advantage. His face, however, was grim. He knelt by her side and took her hands in his. He was not wearing gloves, and the feel of his bare skin on hers sent a small thrill through her.

"Emma, I came as soon as I heard," he began gravely.

"And are you very displeased?" she interrupted, wishing to know the worst at once.

He scowled. "I always believed him to be a man of easy manners and easier morals, but even I did not think he could stoop so low as this."

Emma gasped. "Surely it is not so bad? I know Frank and Jane were wrong to conceal their engagement, but I believe them to be very sincerely attached to each other."

He searched her face, pity in his eyes. "Emma, how can you say that? You, who have been his chief victim."

Emma flushed and looked down at their joined hands. "I cannot pretend to misunderstand you, Mr Knightley, though it may sink me further in your regard to admit it. I never thought his attentions to me to be at all serious. I was flattered by them, I allowed them, but my heart was not engaged."

"Emma, is this true?"

She nodded sadly.

"But I heard him proposing to you yesterday. He distinctly said you had made him the happiest of men!"

"You heard that?" she asked, astonished.

It was his turn to look down. "I was waiting outside the door," he mumbled.

Emma thought back over her conversation with Frank. "If he said that, it was only because I had given my blessing to the match. His aunt has died, you see, and he wanted to announce his engagement to Miss Fairfax immediately, but he did not want it to come as a surprise to me. I wished him every joy in his marriage."

"But you were crying when I came in, Emma. Do not seek to deny it."

Emma clasped his hands tighter. It might be her last opportunity to touch him like this. "If I was, Mr Knightley, it was only because I was contemplating the end of our friendship."

"The end of our friendship? Emma, why would you say such a thing? I know it was not proper for me to care for you as I did, but truly, there was no one else, and your life hung in the balance."

Greatly daring, Emma reached out and touched his face, which had paled alarmingly.

"Mr Knightley, I am more grateful to you than I can express. Truly, I believe your concern for me was the only thing holding me to this earth at times. I would never chastise you for it."

"Then tell me what I have done wrong, Emma, so that I may make amends," he begged.

"Why do you speak like that when I am the one in the wrong? You were so angry with me on Box Hill, you must have thought of severing the acquaintance."

"Emma, no!" He took her hand from his cheek, and bringing it to his lips, kissed it. "It was unforgivable of me to speak to you so. My only excuse is that I was half mad with jealously of Frank Churchill."

"But why should you be jealous of Frank Churchill?" Emma asked, though she feared the answer. Did Mr Knightley admire Jane Fairfax, despite his denials? That would account for the violence of his reaction to the news of their engagement.

"Emma, can't you guess? If I have ever thought of ending our friendship, it is only because my dearest wish is that one day you might consent to be my wife."

She looked into his eyes then, and received such a glowing look of admiration and love in return that her eyes filled once more. She could not speak, but only nod and smile.

Mr Knightley's astonishment appeared equal to her own. He froze for a moment, as though unable to believe the evidence of his eyes, and then sat beside her on the sofa and drew her tenderly into his arms, raining kisses over her hair and face.

Emma found this occupation so pleasant that she was forced to retaliate in kind. She even had the temerity to press her lips to his. The effect on Mr Knightley was immediate. He groaned and crushed her tightly to his chest, until her bruises protested and she could not suppress a small squeak.

He released her immediately. "Emma, my Emma, what am I thinking, to be making love to you when you are only just arisen from your sick bed." He settled her gently back against the sofa. "Forgive me, my darling."

Emma giggled. "Would it shock you to know that I find your embraces so delightful that I have not a care for my poor ribs?"

The expression of heartfelt delight which then suffused his face became him extremely well. "Emma, it does not shock me at all, you teasing minx, but it does please me excessively. Too excessively, I fear." He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

Emma did not perfectly understand his meaning, but reflected that she would probably enjoy finding out once she was a married woman.

He regarded her ruefully. "Emma, it is now my turn to shock you. I have berated you so often for the slightest of transgressions, and if only you could have beheld my behaviour this last week, you would be appalled."

"Why, Mr Knightley," said Emma saucily. "Whatever have you been doing?"

"Well, Emma, I have spoken disparagingly of your poor father, and your dear sister, picked a fight with a nurse and contemplated another with Frank Churchill, spent days and nights unchaperoned in your bedchamber, and if only you had heard how rudely I spoke to Miss Bates…"

"You were rude to Miss Bates?" asked Emma with a naughty smile. She brought one hand to her chest. "My darling, I am shocked indeed." Much to her delight, he flushed slightly at the endearment.

She tried to school her features into a severe look, with indifferent success. "Come, my love, you must tell me exactly what you said so that I may scold you for it."

Mr Knightley threw back his head and laughed. Emma thought it the most delightful sound she had ever heard.


End file.
